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by pasiphile



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8876935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: There are ups and downs, but the one consistent thing is that they're together.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ullman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ullman/gifts).



> I didn't even remotely have enough time to do all the necessary research for a story like this one, so I sincerely apologise for any historical mistakes.
> 
> Warnings, of course, for homophobia, and discussion of chronic illness and death.

**I**

The noise is overwhelming.

So are the people. The touching, on all sides – Gethin’s hardly ever seen that many people packed together in that small a spot. They're squashed together, moving sluggishly forward like some kind of huge limping caterpillar. A caterpillar made of shouting people, laughing people, kissing people even - 

The one thing that does keep him grounded to reality, that reminds him that this isn't all just a beautiful dream, are the people standing on the sides of the street, watching them, strict and disapproving. Some of them have banners. Gethin gives them a look, then pointedly turns his head away, focusing on the sheer challenging joy of the people around him.

Being here – it’s unlike anything he ever considered possible, beyond anything he’d dreamed off. It’s _impossible_.

Then again, his mother did used to say that London was a home to all kind of unnatural, impossible things.

He doesn’t want to think about his mother right now.

“Newbie, yeah?” someone shouts into his ear.

Gethin whirls, and stares. Even in the colourful crowd of the Pride, this guy stands out, because that is definitely a skirt. And make-up. And stubble.

Gethin shakes his head. “How did you – ”

“You’ve got that air,” the guy says, waving his hand in what he probably thinks is an explanatory manner. “Both shit-scared and ready to fight everyone.”

Gethin is surprised into laughing. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s me, all right.”

“Welsh? Fucking hell, I’m sorry.”

The guy smiles at him, and suddenly it strikes Gethin that this guy’s gay. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t gay. And the guy knows Gethin is gay too, because otherwise Gethin wouldn’t be here, and they’re both gay and they’re meeting up in the open and smiling at each other like there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

“Gorgeous smile on you,” the guy says. Then adds, with a wink, “Almost as gorgeous as your arse.”

Gethin flushes, promptly, and the guy laughs, loud and delighted. The people on the curb’s disapproval intensifies.

“What’s your name – no, let me guess: Idris. No? Geraint? Hywell? Well? Put me out of my misery.”

“Gethin,” he says, still smiling. “And, er, and you?”

The guy smiles at him. “Jonathan.”

 

**II**

“Jonathan’s back?”

“Yeah,” Eddy says, easily. “He’s dropping of his things at his place and then coming ‘round here to say hello.”

“Great,” Gethin says, staring down gloomily down his pint.

Jonathan is bad for him.

Not that, god forbid, Jonathan is a bad person. It’s quite the opposite, actually: behind all the flamboyance and confidence and flair Jonathan is actually a markedly kind man. And that, of  course, is part of the problem.

Jonathan is bad for him because Jonathan makes him want things he can’t have. Jonathan makes him feel like a fucking straight person, wanting nothing more than settle down in a house somewhere, live together, spend all their time together, no one else needed. And that’s not the world Gethin wants. Not really.

He isn’t like normal people. He shouldn’t pretend.

So yeah, Jonathan is bad news and if Gethin had any backbone at all he’d stay well away. And he tries, he honestly does, but all Jonathan has to do is fucking smile at him and his resolve crumbles into nothing.

Damn that fucking smile.

“ _Hello London!_ ”

Despite himself, Gethin looks up.

“Your prodigal son returns,” Jonathan says, with a broad grin. He’s tanned. It looks good on him.

“How was LA?” someone asks.

“Sinkhole of sin and depravity,” Jonathan says, without missing a beat. “I loved it.” And he goes over to his mates, all loud enthusiasm and bright smiles.

Gethin downs what’s left of his pint in one go.

Maybe he should just try to avoid Jonathan. _Lead us not into temptation_ , and all that. But he likes this bar, he genuinely does, and it’s not like there’s a gay bar on every corner, even now, even in London.

Besides, knowing Jonathan, there probably isn’t a gay bar where he doesn’t come.

Gethin sighs and runs his hand over his eyes. Eddy wordlessly slides another pint across the bar towards him.

“Hi.”

Gethin closes his eyes. Pity he doesn’t pray anymore, because that’s about the only thing he can think of to try.

“Hey,” he says back, and he turns his head, and there is Jonathan, smiling in a smaller, more intimate way than the grin of before, and his eyes are fixed on Gethin and it’s kind and fond and just a little worried, and, well, _shit_.

“Tough day?” Jonathan asks, with a nod at the full pint and the empty one standing next to it.

“Aren’t they all?” Gethin says gloomily, then adds, before Jonathan can get into that, “How were the States?”

“Interesting enough.” Jonathan turns, back leaning against the bar. “Loud, mostly, is what I kept thinking. Not just about gay rights, about everything. It’s… different.”

“Better?” Gethin asks.

Jonathan shrugs. “Dunno. In some ways, maybe. In other ways, less. There’s no point in comparing, really.”

“So you prefer it here?” Gethin can’t help but ask.

“Here is home,” Jonathan says, and there’s something in the way he looks at Gethin when he says that word that makes him stomach do backflips.

Gethin takes a deep gulp of his beer, then grabs Jonathan’s hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling him towards the back door.

“Er, sure?” Jonathan says, sounding bemused.

“I missed you,” Gethin says, and it’s true, even if it isn’t the whole truth.

The cold air outside hits like a punch, but it’s still not enough to bring him to his senses. He pushes Jonathan against the wall, drops to his knees, and before he can have any second thoughts about it he’s got Jonathan’s dick in his mouth.

Jonathan’s hand closes on Gethin’s hair, gently, not pulling. He’s cursing, quietly, and when Gethin peeks up he can see Jonathan’s head, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, and it’s the most fucking beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Wait, waitwaitwait – ” Jonathan pulls Gethin off, and up. He kisses him hungrily, hand frantically making its way down Gethin’s jeans. Gethin copies him.

Jonathan’s noises, quiet and suppressed, set something off in the back of Gethin’s head. They’re pressed so close they’ve got barely enough room to move, and Gethin somehow manages to elbow himself in the stomach, but _Jonathan’s hand_ is on _his dick_ and it doesn’t last long before he comes.

He doesn’t have the coordination to continue, just sags against Jonathan, hand still on his hard-on. He gives a weak, self-deprecating laugh. “That was – was quick.”

“Hey, I don’t mind.”

Gethin pulls his hand back. Jonathan makes a small disappointed noise and despite himself, Gethin smiles. “It’s fine, I’ll suck you off.”

He moves to kneel but Jonathan hooks his hand underneath Gethin’s elbow and hoists him back up. “Or,” Jonathan says, “we could continue this in my place.”

Gethin blinks.

“You could stay over afterwards, no need to cross half the city to get back to yours, if you’re worried about that,” Jonathan says, and he sounds oddly nervous about it.

“Oh,” Gethin says.

Jonathan opens his mouth, then shakes his head, looking down and frowning in a very tired, unhappy way. “No, its – it’s fine, forget it.”

“I – what?” Gethin manages.

“I thought you’d like – although, Christ, I’m an idiot, I’ve got no clue what you think, not ever.” He looks up, meeting Gethin’s eyes. “I can’t make sense of you. One moment you look like you’d rather I was somewhere half across the world and the next you’re jumping me in a back-alley. I mean – Christ, Geth, talk about mixed signals.”

Gethin stares at him.

“It’s fine, okay?” Jonathan says, resignedly. “I’m not forcing you into anything, I just thought that – ”

“I have to work in the morning,” Gethin says.

“Yeah.” Jonathan’s mouth twists. “Thought so.”

“So, er, you could come over to my place instead?”

Jonathan’s head whips up. “What?”

“If you – if you want.”

Jonathan stares at him, eyes skipping across Gethin’s face, as if he’s in shock, as if he still thinks Gethin is lying somehow. Gethin’s heart is hammering in his chest and his mouth has gone dry, because if this fails, if he fucked this up…

The smile on Jonathan’s face breaks like the morning sun over the sea. “I want.”

 

**III**

 

Police whistles yell their shrill warning behind them as they sprint away from the crowd. Next to him, David throws off his nun’s habit, and on the other side of him someone he doesn’t know roughly wipes makeup off his face.

“Scatter!” David yells, and they each pick a direction. Gethin careens off down an alleyway, and the whistles and yelling go past, then fade.

Gethin leans against the wall, hands on his thighs, heart hammering. Then he pushes up and starts pacing up and down the alley, full of nervous energy. Out of all the things they’ve done so far, this is by far the boldest. There was TV, for god’s sake, the BBC recorded it all.

What if his mum sees him on the news?

A touch on his arm. Gethin whirls, panicked, then – “ _Jonathan_.”

“Thought I saw you skulking off here,” Jonathan says, grinning broadly. He’s still in full drag, makeup a little smeared and beads of sweat streaking tracks through the blush.

“You look beautiful,” Gethin says, matching Jonathan’s grin. And before Jonathan can reply he drags his face close and kisses him.

They’re against the wall, somehow, when Gethin finally pulls off again. He blinks, still high on adrenaline, on sheer bloody triumph.

“Did we – did we just _do that_?” he asks, voice cracking.

“We most certainly did.”

“Mice!” Gethin laughs.

“Bleeding mice,” Jonathan agrees, wheezing with laughter. “Christ, did you see their faces? When Gareth unrolled that banner and they read – ”

“God, yes. _Beautiful_.”

Jonathan drags him in for another wild kiss. “That one was for Mary Whitehouse,” he says, when he lets go.

“So’s this, then,” Gethin says, and he shoves Jonathan against the wall and kisses him, biting at his lip, running his hand underneath the skirt over Jonathan’s firm warm thigh.

Jonathan puts his hand on Gethin chest and pushes him off a little. “As much as I like the idea of a victory fuck right here right now,” he says, breathless, “I doubt it’s a good idea, with the filth still around. Don't fancy being arrested for public indecency.”

“Good point.” He takes a step back, forces down this wild giddiness. “Although I think you’re going to draw people’s attentions if you go out like that.”

“No worries, I’ve got a bag of clothes stashed away two streets from here.” Jonathan grins, again. “God. I never thought it would work.”

“It did. It worked.” Gethin grabs Jonathan’s nape and pulls him in for one last hard quick kiss. “Now come on, let’s get back.”

***

They celebrate, that night, wildly, in challenge. A few of them got arrested and they will be charged, no doubt about that, and that’s one hell of a dark side to all this, but for now…

For now, they celebrate. There's music and people laughing, and even out of drag Jonathan is breathtakingly gorgeous, especially when he's dancing. Even Gethin is feeling cheerful enough that he allows Jonathan to pull him onto the dance floor, awkwardness ignored for once. It's amazing, too, simply having fun with Jonathan like that. 

It's well after midnight when they finally get out in the streets again. “Your place, right?” Jonathan asks, sounding like he's sobering up.

“It’s closest," Gethin says, with half a glance at him.

“Yeah.”

They go off together. Gethin slings his arm around Jonathan's waist and Jonathan reciprocates. It's openly affectionate in a way they usually aren’t, not around here, but if there ever was a day to be daring it's today.

Jonathan is being oddly quiet, though. Now the euphoria of the protest has disappeared, what else has taken its place? He can be melancholic, sometimes, Jonathan. He hides it well enough, but they’ve been together long enough by now that Gethin can recognise the signs.

“You all right?” he asks, cautiously.

“Hm?” Jonathan looks at him, and the pensive expression dissolves into a small fond smile. “Yeah, I am. Just thinking.”

On impulse, Gethin snags Jonathan by the nape and plants a kiss on his cheek. Jonathan beams, surprised and pleased, and –

“ _Nonce!”_

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Jonathan yells, not even a pause.

Gethin catches a sigh, fighting a wave of disappointment. For a moment it felt like they had changed the world, like they’d stepped into the open, demanded a place no matter what everyone else thinks.

But no amount of protests are going to change the way people look at them as they walk down the street together.

They reach his door. He unlocks it and they go up the requisite three flights of stairs, to Gethin’s minuscule room. It’s depressing, to say the least. Peeling wallpaper, a constant smell of damp, barely enough room for one person, let alone two.

“I’m sorry,” Gethin says, reflexively.

“What for?” Jonathan asks, surprised.

“This. This place.”

“It’s not your fault it’s that shit.”

“No, but I don’t even put in any effort. Your place is – well, it’s small, but at least it’s really yours, right?”

Jonathan shrugs. “I don’t really care, Geth. Not as long as it’s got you in it.”

Gethin shakes his head. “You’re a bloody sap, Jonathan.”

“I am. Come on.” He takes Gethin’s hand and pulls him towards the bed.

***

Afterwards, Gethin lies back in bed, staring sleepy and contented at the ceiling. The muscles in his thighs are aching pleasantly and there's a place just beneath his ear that, judging by the warmth of it, is going to be embarrassing if he goes to work tomorrow, but right now, he feels divine. 

“I think you should give up your flat and come live with me,” Jonathan says suddenly.

Gethin rolls over onto his stomach, presses up onto his elbows. “Sorry?”

“Give up your flat,” Jonathan says, eyes fixed on Gethin's face. “You’re not here that much, anyway, are you? I can barely afford my place, you can barely afford yours, so why not just split the halves?”

“I thought we were campaigning against monogamous traditional life?” Gethin said, with half a smile.

“It’s not heteronormativity, it’s bloody pragmatism.” Jonathan looks down, hand on Gethin’s forearm. “You’re losing sleep over the money thing.”

“Yeah, but…” He rolls onto his back, hands behind his head. “It’s a big step, isn’t it? Living together? Like a – an actual couple?”

“We have been an actual couple for two years,” Jonathan points out, mildly.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to, obviously.” Jonathan rolls over and lies back next to Gethin. “I just… Give it some thought.”

“I don't have to.”

Jonathan looks up at him. “You mean you...”

Only this morning, Gethin snogged Jonathan, in full drag, in front of a hundreds of hard-right conservatives and probably millions of viewers. After that, what is there to fear? Compared to that, how can something simple as living together feel daunting?

So he gives Jonathan a smile. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Jonathan asks, eyes bright, smile brighter.

“Yes,” Gethin says again, and his heart lifts.

 

**IV**

Today, it takes a solid shove at the door with his shoulder to get it to open.

Gethin frowns at it. The door has been sagging further and further sideways into its hinges each day, but any attempt at fixing it themselves had failed miserably. And hiring someone costs money they don’t have.

He kicks it closed violently – which probably doesn’t help the hinge-matter, but fuck that – and hangs up his coat. Jonathan isn't in yet. Gethin takes the two steps requisite to the living-slash-dining room, and just takes it all in for a moment, tiredness settling in.

He’d found the clutter charming, the first few times he’d been here. Thought it represented Jonathan’s laissez-faire attitude, his general bright energy.

The only thing it represents now is just _more work_.

He glances at the dishes waiting in the sink, and at the clothes left hanging on the furniture and the dirty floors and his entire being just goes _no_. No. Not now.

So he sits down and grabs the paper. Not even reading, just… staring.

Not too much later the door bangs open. “Gethin?” Jonathan yells from the hallway.

“In here,” he yells back.

There’s a stumble and a bang, and Jonathan comes in. Gethin glances up.

And even now, with the constant tiredness and the irritability and the frustration, even now, something in him sees Jonathan and just goes _oh_.

There he is.

Gethin gives him a weak smile and returns to his paper.

Jonathan goes off to the kitchen. He’d been carrying bags – went shopping, then, and that does go some way to reassure his general grumpiness. At least Jonathan put in some effort too.

 “So, no word of the house yet?” Jonathan asks over his shoulder.

“Yes,” Gethin says, keeping his eyes on the paper. “They said no.”

“Did you – ”

“ _Yes_.”

A tense silence.

Gethin rubs his forehead. Jonathan’s silence is in its way even more grating than any nagging would have been. “Is this the part where you tell me that I’m being naive and out of touch with reality?” he asks, irritated.

“No.”

Gethin turns in the sofa. Jonathan is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, frowning.

“If anything,” Jonathan says, still frowning, “this is the part where I say you’re making it hard on yourself.”

“Ourselves.”

“This isn’t about me being selfish, Geth, don’t pretend it is.”

Gethin turns back. “I’m not lying.”

Silence, again. Then Jonathan’s footsteps. He sits down next to Gethin, carefully runs his fingertips over Gethin’s cheek, and settles his hand on the nape of Gethin’s neck.

Gethin closes his eyes. Some kind of tension seeps away – but with it, so do his defenses. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to just – collapsing.

“I admire you, you know.”

Gethin’s eyes snap open.

Then he gives Jonathan a wry smile. “I’m not the one who walks down Clapham High Street in full drag at pub closing time, Jonathan.”

“Bravery takes many forms,” Jonathan says, and only he could deliver those words and not sound like an utter twat.

Gethin drops his head against the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. “So you think we should lie?” he asks, tiredly. “Tell ‘em – what, that we’re brothers? Friends?”

“Maybe we just shouldn’t be that open with it, right from the start.”

“And after that? Do we ask over girls, to keep up the pretence? To make sure people don’t get suspicious about those two bachelors living together?” Gethin opens his eyes. “How far does this need to go, Jonathan?”

Jonathan shakes his head, still wearing the same concerned frown. “Don’t you think I get that?” he asks, softly.

Gethin rolls over and buries his face into the crook of Jonathan’s shoulder. Jonathan’s arm comes up around him, pulling him closer.

Jonathan isn’t the enemy. But sometimes it’s just so damn easy to lash out, and the only one close enough is  - always, ever, inevitably –  him.

It isn’t fair. None of it is.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against Jonathan’s shirt front. He pulls back, takes Jonathan’s neck and kisses him.

***

It’s a battle.

Except it isn’t, because battles end. Battles have clear sides and now matter how bloody, they eventually always end.

This, well, this is more akin to a war. Wars are the things that can drag on for years, decades, centuries. Where the enemy isn’t just the person on the opposite side of the field but something higher, bigger, shadowy and untouchable.

In the early days he had thought it exciting. He’d felt like a soldier for a just cause. The first time he marched with the Pride they could have powered half London with the force of his convictions. Out, and proud, and fuck everyone who took offence at that.

But the thing is that it keeps going. The world keeps being hostile, even when he’s feeling a little tired, a little sad. It doesn’t matter whether he feels like fighting or not because it never, ever stops.

They’re never safe. Not _really_.

“I can hear you brooding,” Jonathan mumbles sleepily.

“Sorry,” Gethin says. “I’ll try to brood more quietly.”

Jonathan groans, then turns onto his side, throwing his arm around Gethin. Gethin takes Jonathan's hand, entwining their fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jonathan asks, after a moment.

“Not really.” Gethin squeezes Jonathan's hand. “It's just - It's nothing.”

“It's evidently something, or you wouldn't be lying awake.”

“Just - ” Gethin shrugs, fingers still tight around Jonathan's hand. “Saw the neighbours again.”

“Ah,” Jonathan says, nothing else. But he knows.

Gethin closes his eyes. He had thought he knew about discrimination, homophobia. He’d seen it often enough since the moment he came to London and became part of the gay scene. The insults, the occasional violence, the constant obvious disgust and hatred...

But he’d been wrong. That had been nothing compared to what happens now. Apparently, to most people it's one thing to live a single life and just go out every odd weekend for a bit of fun; but it's something completely different to live with another man, together, as a couple.

Neither of them compromises. Jonathan doesn't hide his skirts and heels when he went out. Gethin doesn't hesitate to kiss Jonathan goodbye on the doorstep every morning.

Even if it does mean getting the door spray-panted with profanity every now and then, or consistently receiving dirty looks from the people in the neighbourhood, or watching mothers pull away children from them when they passed them in the streets.

Maybe they served as a threat. Be nice, kids, or the faggots will come and get you.

“Do you ever wonder if it’s all worth it?” Gethin asks, quietly.

“No,” Jonathan says. “Do you?”

Gethin looks up at him. Sleep has tousled his curls, and they haven't closed the curtains properly which means the moonlight is coming in, highlighting spots of pale light on his face. Jonathan’s arm is warm and heavy around him, his chest is moving slow and deep, and if Gethin concentrates he can hear Jonathan’s heartbeat, and –

“No,” Gethin says, truthfully. “I don’t.”

***

About a week later Jonathan takes him out, without explaining why, or where. He just takes Gethin’s hand after they’ve had breakfast and pulls him along, down the streets, urgently, driven. Gethin would worry about it, except it’s Jonathan and the thought of being afraid of him is absurd.

“Well?” Gethin asks, when they finally stop.

Jonathan gestures at the buildings in front of them. Gethin stares at them, confused.

“What are you…?” he asks.

“Number sixty-six,” Jonathan says, with a strange sense of badly-contained excitement.

Gethin looks. It’s just another house, empty and mostly derelict, the window on the first floor broken. “Yes?”

“Do you want it?”

Gethin turns to look at Jonathan, completely at a loss.

“Mate of a mate of mine owns it,” Jonathan says, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s moving to the States and wants to get rid of it, doesn’t want the bother. Of course, in that state, the buyers aren’t exactly queuing up. Or, well, I don’t know, maybe they might be, maybe he just wants to do us a favour. Either way, he’s willing to sell it to us fairly cheap, if we decide quickly.”

Gethin looks back at the house.

“I… realise it doesn’t exactly look very inviting. And, er, there is a catch.”

“Is there?” Gethin asks absently.

“It’s registered as a commercial property, apparently. We can live in it but there’s some paperwork involved to get it all legal, so, you know. Unless you feel like opening a shop,” Jonathan adds, laughter in his voice.

Gethin goes to the door and puts his hand on the wood. The hinges are twisted but the wood is still strong. “A shop?” he repeats, softly, then looks over his shoulder.

Jonathan looks anxious. Worried. “I’m – if this is a stupid idea, just tell me all right?” he says, impatience creeping into his voice.

“No.” Gethin grins at him.

“No?” Jonathan asks, hope dawning on his face.

“I think it’s a _brilliant_ idea.”

 

 

**V**

The water is red. He’ll have to change it again, for the fifth time, and still the letters are there.

Funny, really. You’d think that after two years of periodical profanity he’d get used to it, but no. If anything, his impotent anger at the cowards who did this has grown, not diminished.

“Oh, Christ.”

“Morning.” Gethin dips his sponge back into the bucket, then starts to scrub at the O.

“You should have called me,” Jonathan says.

“What for?” Gethin asks, dully. “It’s not like that would have changed anything.”

“Geth.” Jonathan’s hand drops onto Gethin’s shoulder and Gethin closes his eyes.

“We knew,” he says. “We knew this was going to happen. We can’t be open and expect no consequences.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Jonathan says, and his voice is soft but there’s something in there, some quiet burning anger...

Gethin turns and leans his forehead against Jonathan’s, and Jonathan throws his arm around his waist.

“It’s a disgrace,” a voice comes from behind them.

They separate and turn. The old lady who runs the shoe shop next to him is frowning at them.

“Sorry?” Jonathan asks, in icy tones.

Gethin lays his hand on Jonathan’s arm. It’s one thing to get angry, but a whole other thing to shout at little old ladies, no matter how awful they might be.

“The vandalism. It’s awful.” She sniffs. “That’s, what, the fifth time since the year started? Sixth? You should call the police, love.”

“I, er…” Gethin exchanges a quick, surprised look with Jonathan. “I don’t think the police will care that much.”

“Well, they should. It’s vandalism. Those little hoodlums should pay for the damage, at least.” She leans closed and squints at the paint. “Use a dollop of bleach, my love, that’ll get it off easier,” she says, then turns and totters back to her own shop.

“Well,” Gethin says, eyes wide.

“That’s unexpected.” Jonathan gives the window a critical look, then takes Gethin’s shoulder. “Come on, get inside for a bit.”

“No. I want to get this off as soon as possible.” He leans down and dips his sponge in the bucket, then starts scrubbing again.

Jonathan stays next to him, for a moment or two. Gethin stubbornly continues.

Then Jonathan sighs. “I’ll get the bleach, then, shall I?”

***

“Do you feel like the world is changing?” Gethin asks, later that day.

“Hm?” Jonathan looks up from his pots and pans. “Hand me the cumin, will you?”

Gethin hands over the small bottle, hip leaning against the counter. “Here.”

“Thanks. Changing in what way?” Jonathan throws him a quick look. “Technology, certainly. Overall mentality too, perhaps, although that’s hard to judge.”

“I mean for us. For gay people. In terms of acceptance.”

Jonathan frowns at him. “Maybe, a little, here and there.”

“I don't.” He looks down. “I mean, yes, I do see some things improving, but... It doesn't  _feel_ that way. It feels like it’s stagnating, like nothing – like nothing will ever change.”

“Even with Mrs Johnson down the road ready to take up arms for us?” Jonathan asks lightly.

Gethin gives him an ironic look.

Jonathan shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, going back to his cooking. “I do feel like people are starting to listen to us. Before we – people like us – have always been invisible, and that certainly has changed.”

“I know, and I’m not saying that isn’t an improvement, but…” Gethin runs his hand over his face. “But the way people look at us. I just – at this point, I can’t ever see it changing.”

“It’s a slow change, that sort of thing. We just – have to keep believing that we’re steadily making our way ahead, step by step.” He reaches across Gethin for something on the counter, taking the opportunity to give Gethin’s shoulder a quick reassuring squeeze.

“Hm.” Gethin pushes off and comes up behind Jonathan, throwing his arms around Jonathan’s waist. “I can’t imagine it, you know. A world where we don’t have to fight all the time. And sometimes, it’s…” He breaks off.

Jonathan turns off the fire and turns in the circle of Gethin’s arms, holding a spoon. “Mouth open,” he says, then puts the spoon between lips.

Gethin chews, contemplatively. “Delicious,” he decides, and Jonathan smiles.

“Thanks. So. Sometimes, it’s…?” Jonathan raises his eyebrows.

“It feels like I don’t know how to stop. Fighting. And it’s – I’m afraid I’ll, that I won’t recognise…” He trails off again, not finding the right words.

“That you won’t realise when the fight’s won?” Jonathan suggests.

Gethin nods. “That I won’t see the things that are improving.”

“You do see ‘em, if you ask me.” Jonathan puts his hands on Gethin’s hips. “You just need to keep believing in them, that they matter.”

“Like Mrs Johnson?” Gethin asks, with a faint smile.

“Exactly.” Jonathan pecks him on the lips, then turns again. “Come on, dinner.”

“Sure my gloomy pessimism hasn’t spoiled our appetite?” Gethin asks with a smile.

“Only enhanced it,” Jonathan says smoothly. “I need sustenance to keep me going for the fight. And not _just_ for the fight,” he adds, with a saucy wink.

Gethin shakes his head in fond exasperation and follows him into the dining room, looking out absently.

From the window he can see Mrs Johnson from the shop next door. She spots him and gives him a cheery wave, which he returns.

 _Try to believe_.

Maybe the world _is_ changing.

 

 

**VI**

_“What scientists are now calling GRID, or Gay-Related Immune Disease, is baffling scientists-  ”_

Gethin switches it off.

“Enough about me, eh?” Jonathan says, with a sick smile.

Gethin stands up and goes to the window, arms tightly crossed across his chest.

“What, not allowed to joke about it?” Jonathan asks. “Come on, Gethin, leave me some coping mechanisms, yeah?”

Gethin turns.

Jonathan is still in his suit. The black makes him look pale, washed-out, tired.

Just the colour of the jacket. Just an effect of the light. That’s all.

“I prefer humour to denial, anyway,” Jonathan continues, and it’s nauseating because he sounds like he used to, but beneath that there’s something ugly boiling, just below the surface.

“Stop it,” Gethin says flatly.

“Why?” Jonathan bristles. “Why should I listen to what you want? It’s not like you – ”

“Jonathan, please, I’m – ”

“I’m  _dying_ , Gethin,” Jonathan yells. “I’m dying, right here, right now, and you can pretend it’s not happening all you want but that isn’t going to change the fact that I’m fucking  _dying_.”

“You don’t know that,” Gethin says.

“I do know that. Think I’m some special little snowflake, do you? That I’ll somehow be spared when everyone else is – “ He breaks off and turns away, breathing hard.

Billy’s funeral is already the third they’ve been to, and it won’t be the last.

They’re horrible, those funerals, without exception. There’s an overwhelming atmosphere of shocked disbelief hanging over it all – it happens so quickly, so suddenly, and Christ it’s ugly when it does.

And Billy’s funeral was one of the better ones. David’s had been in a church full of straight people, with speeches reminiscing about David’s happy youth and carefully sidestepping anything he’d done in the last five years.

David’s partner had been at the back of the church, pale as a sheet and completely silent.

“One hell of a time to find your optimist streak, Gethin,” Jonathan sneers.

Gethin looks away, bites the inside of his cheek. “What do you want me to do, then?” he asks, words sharp, bitten-off. “Start mourning you already? Prepare your funeral?”

“Stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

“I’m  _not_.”

“Really?” Jonathan sneers. “You can look me in the eye and tell me that you’re looking at a dying man, then, can you?”

“Jonathan – ”

“Go on, then, Gethin.” He crosses the room in two quick steps and grabs Gethin’s face, fingers digging hard into his cheeks, forcing Gethin to meet his eyes. “Acknowledge it. Stop running away from this.”

Gethin grabs Jonathan’s wrists, grip iron-hard, and meets Jonathan’s eyes unflinchingly. “I’m not,” he says, again, voice hard.

Jonathan stares at him. And then he sags; hands sliding down until he’s got his arms around Gethin’s neck. The sudden weight of him almost makes him stumble, but he stays upright, one hand at the back of Jonathan’s neck and the other tight around his waist.

“I don’t know, all right, Gethin?” Jonathan mumbles against Gethin’s neck. “You don’t talk about it. You don’t say a word. How the hell am I – ” He breaks off, then leans back, one hand on Gethin’s cheek, frowning, and Gethin’s never bloody loved him more.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Jonathan gives him a ghost of his usual smile and lets go. He takes a few steps, then sags down into the chair, elbows resting on his thighs.

After a moment, Gethin goes over. He sits down on the armrest of Jonathan’s chair, and Jonathan leans into his side.

“I’m sorry I don’t talk about it,” Gethin says, again, struggling with the words. “I don’t – I don’t know how to…”

“Nobody knows how to talk about this, Gethin,” Jonathan says, tiredly. “But I need to know. I need to know what you feel, all right? I need you to tell me.”

For a moment they sit there, in silence, pressed close to each other. Then -

“I’m scared,” Gething says, hoarsely. “And hoping. And scared of hoping.”

“There,” Jonathan says, voice cracked. “Was that so difficult? Why did you wait so long to share that?”

“It – ” Gethin looks down, struggling again. “This isn’t – this isn’t about me.”

Jonathan reaches up and tilts Gethin’s chin towards him. “What?” he asks, gently.

“I don’t – ” Gethin briefly closes his eyes. “I don’t want you to worry about what I’m feeling,” he says, quietly.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then Jonathan leans forward and rests his head against Gethin’s chest. “You idiot,” he says, equally quiet.

“Yeah.” Gethin runs his hand through Jonathan’s curls. “I’m – I’m sorry.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that,” Jonathan says.

“I know. I’m s- ” He breaks off. “Anyway. Now you know.”

“Yeah.” Jonathan turns his head, snuggling a little closer to Gethin. “Thanks.”

“Let’s be scared together, then?” Gethin offers.

Jonathan pulls back and gives him a watery smile. “Beats being scared separately, right?”

***

They haven’t had sex since Jonathan came back from the doctor, that first time. He refuses to. At the start he even didn’t want Gethin touching him, but they quickly got around that. If it had been that contagious, Gethin would’ve been infected weeks ago.

But he misses it. As he gets into the bed and rolls onto his side, reaching for Jonathan, every instinct is to kiss him, run his hand down his hips to his cock, get him off. But…

Jonathan catches Gethin’s hand. “No,” he says, flatly.

Gethin pulls away and rolls onto his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

“You’re not a teenager, Gethin,” Jonathan says tiredly. “You can survive a few weeks without sex.”

“A few weeks?” Gethin rolls his head. “Until you’re dead?”

Jonathan doesn’t look at him.

“Shouldn’t we make the best of it when you’re still here?” Gethin asks, bites, and there’s a terrible anger rising in him but he can’t fight it, can’t resist.

“ _You’re_ not dying,” Jonathan says, and it could just as well be a plea as a reproach. Or an order.

“You think I want to live on without you?”

“Don’t say that.” Jonathan gets up, straddling Gethin. “Don’t you fucking dare say that.”

“Why not? It’s my decision, so shouldn’t I – ”

“Gethin,” Jonathan says, and his voice cracks and there’s something terrible there, something that sucks away all of Gethin’s anger leaving only hollow fear.

“But I don’t,” Gethin says quietly. “I don’t – not without you.”

“I need you to live,” Jonathan says. “Please, Geth, promise me, I – I need you to – ”

Gethin sits up and pulls Jonathan roughly close, chin on his shoulders, arms tight around him. It doesn’t take long until Jonathan starts sobbing, terrible forced sobs that convulse his body against Gethin.

“You’re alive,” Gethin whispers fiercely against Jonathan’s skin. “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re _alive_.”

Jonathan’s sobbing intensifies an Gethin’s face is wet with silent tears, but he doesn’t let go.

He’ll never let go.

 

 

**VII**

 

Joe is watching them again.

It’s odd, the hunger in his eyes. The way he can’t stop staring when he and Jonathan are there, together. Or, well, no, it’s not odd. If Gethin’d had someone like them at that age, in Rhyl, he would have stared too.

“Makes you feel responsible, doesn’t it?” Jonathan says softly, picking up on Gethin’s thoughts.

“A bit.” Gethin shrugs. “Makes me feel like I should be watching my steps.”

“We’re setting an example here,” Jonathan says. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, who else is he going to look to? Mark? Jeff?”

Jonathan smiles. “They’re their own kind of example.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, hand firmly in Gethin’s. “Anyway. We should leave. Sure you’re not coming this time?”

“No.” Gethin shakes his head, looks down. “I’m – I’ll get there, I promise. But I, I need – ”

“Hey.” Jonathan puts his hand on Gethin’s knee. “No pressure.”

“Thanks.” He stands up and pulls Jonathan along, then kisses him. “Be careful, all right?”

“I always am.” Jonathan pecks him on the cheek, then takes off, with one last cheerful wave. The kids troop into the bus after him like ducklings following their mother.

Gethin watches them leave, hands in his pockets and shoulders pushed high.

It’s such an unbelievable relief, having Jonathan back to his typical energetic, active self, full of fight and fire.

But things are never fucking simple. Fighting the establishment might have been all fine and good when they were younger, but it’s lost its glamour by now. If Jonathan gets arrested, convicted, they’re both done for. And that’s the best case scenario, because it’s bloody Wales, not London, and people there react differently to someone like Jonathan.

Gethin wraps his arms around himself, frowning, fighting his worry.

Besides, even apart from everything else he really _misses_ Jonathan when he’s gone. All the years they’ve been together, and they’ve never really been apart for more than a few days.

It’s only now that he realises how much of a luxury that really was.

***

“ _Dance lessons_?”

“I swear to God,” Jonathan says over the phone, even the tininess of the line not enough to suppress the laughter in his voice.

“Welshmen?” Gethin says, disbelieving. “Dancing? What on earth are you doing to them there?”

“Educating them. Believe it or not, they’re hoping it’ll impress the girls.”

“I bet it will.” Gethin runs his hand over his face, smiling. “God. I never thought…”

“I know.”

There’s a moment of silence. Even over the phone, it isn’t awkward. It’s enough to know that Jonathan is on the other end of the line, listening.

“How are you?” Gethin asks. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yes, no worries, I'm fine. Keeping nice and warm. Hefina keeps feeding me chicken broth, says I’ve got a skinny look about me. She’s going to have a word with you about my eating habits when you come over here.”

Gethin turns and leans against the counter, phone still in his hand. Just the thought of it, of going back, makes his heart catch in his throat.

“Sorry,” Jonathan says. “Didn’t mean to push.”

“It’s fine.” He breathes out, shakily. “It is. I’m sorry I’m being so…”

“Geth, stop it. Of course I understand.” There’s a shout on the other end of the line, briefly drowning out Jonathan’s voice. “Just a moment, I have to…”

 _Who’s that,_ Gethin can just about hear, the singsong lilt a needle of ice straight into his heart. _Your boyfriend, can you –_

“Sorry,” Jonathan says, after a muffled argument with whoever the voice belonged to. “Gotta go. I’ll be back next week, all right? I’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll be all right?”

“Course. Be safe, all right? Jonathan?”

“Always,” he says, voice warm. “Night, Geth.”

“Night.”

He puts the phone down.

His hands are shaking.

He sags back against the counter and breathes out, heavily, running his hands over his face.

He makes it sound so easy, Jonathan. Like all Gethin needs to do is get in that damn van and everything will just take care of itself. Like his whole childhood, every insult and every wound and every fight aren't just lurking around the corner, ready to jump him as soon as he takes that step. 

But that's being unfair on Jonathan, because he does understand, he really does. And he's handling it pretty well too, just enough pressure to keep Gethin from denying it, but never too much. 

Gethin leans on the counter, supporting himself. Jonathan. Still here. Still his. Still alive. 

He breathes out, long and steady. He'll be back soon enough, Jonathan, and then this constant background ache will be gone again. Every worry about him feels so much stronger when he isn't close, irrational as it is.

He'll be back. And who knows, maybe the next time he leaves, Gethin will have gathered the courage to come with him.

 

 

**VIII**

 

 “No, really, it’s lovely, Jonathan,” Gethin’s mum says.

“I thought it would be a bit too, er…” Gethin throws Jonathan a look, which he blithely ignores.

“We’re never too old to broaden our horizons, aren’t we, Gwyneth?” Jonathan says grandly.

“Well, I suppose not.” She gives them a small smile. “Although I do prefer my dinner to be just a tad less spicy, to be honest.”

Gethin glares at Jonathan. Jonathan ignores it once again.

“Anyway, I should be off,” his mum says, standing up and dusting off her skirt.

“You’re really welcome to stay here, mum,” Gethin says quickly.

“I know, dear, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’m fine in my hotel. In fact…” She leans in close, conspiratorial. “It’s a little bit of an adventure.”

“You enjoy that adventure, Gwyneth,” Jonathan says, with a wide grin. “Give them something to talk about in Rhyl.”

She giggles and Jonathan escorts her out.

Gethin starts clearing up. It’s amazing, really. They get along. They really do. They couldn’t be more different in terms of personality, and yet, they genuinely seem to like each other.

He desposits the dishes into the sink and goes to the doorway. Jonathan is just helping her into her coat.

“You’ll drop by again before you go back to Rhyl, won’t you, Gwyneth?” he asks her.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she says, with a quick look between them.

“You’re not intruding,” Gethin says firmly.

“Well, if you’re sure, I’d be delighted.” She gives him a warm smile. “It’s lovely to see you, my dear.”

He smiles, then steps in and hugs her.

They never used to be huggers, and so this whole thing is still a little awkward, but it does go a long way in healing something inside of him, some tiny cracks that he’s been nursing for years and years, finally starting to close.

She gives him a squeeze, then steps back. “Now, you take care of my boy, Jonathan, won’t you?” she asks, light dancing in her eyes. “He’s still a tad too pale-looking for my liking. No chance of getting him tanned and strong like you, is there?”

“I will put in my best efforts,” Jonathan says, solemnly.

She surprises them both by going on tiptoe and kissing Jonathan’s cheek, and then she’s off, hailing a cab with a confidence that still surprises him.

Jonathan jeeps standing next to him, hand on Gethin’s shoulder, as they watch her leave.

“You haven’t told her yet, have you?” Jonathan asks, once she's gone.

“No.” Gethin takes Jonathan’s hand, squeezes it. “One step at the time.”

Jonathan drops his hand to Gethin's back and ushers him back in, closing the door behind them. “Don’t leave it too long, though,” he says, quietly.

“Why?” Gethin asks.

Jonathan doesn’t reply.

“Jonathan, did something – ”

“No,” Jonathan says, impatiently. “No, I’m feeling fine as ever.”

“But?”

For a moment, he doesn’t reply. Then, “Mark’s HIV-positive.”

Gethin looks up in surprise. “Mark?”

“He just got tested. He wasn’t going to tell me, I think, but I recognised that look on his face, so I came clean, and he just…” Jonathan waves his hand. “It came all out. Not just that he’s got HIV, but that he doesn’t know for how long. Doesn’t know how many others he’s…”

“Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.” Gethin swallows, then goes over to the sofa and sits down, heavily. “Another one.”

“How many, Geth?” Jonathan runs his hands over his face, frustration and pain obvious in his voice, in his body language. “How many more of us have to die before – ”

“Don’t.”

Jonathan lowers his hands and stares at Gethin. Gethin holds out his hand in invitation and Jonathan comes over, takes it, lets him be pulled down next to Gethin.

“This doesn’t help,” Gethin says, softly.

Jonathan grits his teeth, swallows. His eyes are shining. “No,” he says, voice thick. “It doesn’t.”

***

It’s not the first time they’ve had that conversation. It’s not even the hundredth. Variations upon the same themes, over and over again.  _It’s only a matter of time before_ and  _What if you_ and  _How many of our friends do we lose,_ over and over again.

He’s lost count of how many people they’ve lost, by now.

Some small part of Gethin still hasn’t stopped hoping for a cure. Even though he knows that that way, madness lies. If there was a cure, wouldn’t they have found it by now?

But on the other hand, who the fuck cares about an illness that only hits gay men anyway?

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Jonathan says, pulling Gethin from his thoughts.

“Hm?”

“Trouble at the Pride again. They’re saying mining politics has no place there, don’t want us to fly the banners.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gethin mutters. “We’ve seen this happen before, I’d thought…”

“People don’t change. And neither, apparently, do political movements.” Jonathan flops down on the bed. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it? If ever we needed to form a unity, protect each other’s backs, it’s now, but instead…”

“They’re playing safe.” Gethin sits down on the bed and runs his hands over his face. “That’s it. Afraid that if we make too much noise, they’ll shove us back in the closet and this time they’ll throw away the key?”

“Isn’t that what they’re doing already?” Jonathan asks gloomily. “Except with coffins instead of closets.”

Gethin slides his hands off and looks at Jonathan.

Sometimes it gets to him. The impossibility of the fight they’re fighting, the enormity of the enemy they face, how utterly hopeless it all is…

Jonathan takes his thigh. “Hey, now,” he says gently.

Gethin lies down next to Jonathan and curls up to his side. “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me why we keep doing this.”

“Because the alternative is unthinkable.” Jonathan strokes his hair. “Besides, it isn’t that hopeless. There’s at least on village in Wales that’s practically had its gay renaissance because of this. Because of us. That’s what keeps us going, Gethin. The little victories.”

“Because the big one may never come?”

Jonathan stays quiet.

Gethin sighs and rolls onto his back, pulls Jonathan into his arms. “Sorry.”

“No need.”

They don’t speak for a while. Gethin just revels in the warm weight of Jonathan on top of him. Still alive, despite everything. Still here, despite everything that’s tried to stop them.

That’s what’s important.

“I really like your mum, you know,” Jonathan says suddenly, surprising Gethin into laughter.

“Do you?”

“Now I do. Bit shy at first – much like her son, really, because she blossoms as soon as you get to know her better.”

Gethin gives Jonathan an affectionate shove against his side and Jonathan chuckles.

“No, seriously. She’s lovely.”

“She likes you too,” Gethin says. “God knows why.”

“Must be in the genes.”

Gethin shifts, turns around, until he’s got his arms around Jonathan’s waist and they’re face to face. The smile on Jonathan’s face softens, becomes more intimate.

On impulse, Gethin pulls him close and buries his face in the crook of Jonathan’s shoulder.

They’ve learned to live with this. The constant hostility, at first. Then the always-present fear of death, of Jonathan’s amazing luck finally running out and his health catching up with him. God knows it’s not exactly easy, but they’ve found a way around it.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he’s just so bloody _tired_ of it all.

 

**IX**

 

“So, the medication seems to have worked.” The doctor looks up. “Your viral load is as good as undetectable.”

Jonathan exchanges a quick look with Gethin. “Meaning?”

“That your illness is under control.”

“Yes,” Gethin says impatiently, “but what does that _mean_. Really.”

The doctor looks between them. “That the chance of infection is practically zero,” she says, almost reluctantly.

Gethin sags back into his chair. Jonathan’s eyes are wide. “You mean I’m – ”

“You’re not cured,” she says sharply. “This is something I need you to understand. You can’t cure HIV, your illness hasn’t disappeared.”

“But it’s under control,” Gethin says.

“For the moment, yes.” She looks down at her papers. “It isn’t a permanent thing, so it’s of vital importance that you keep taking your medication, regularly. Any sign of disease, any irritating cough or fever and you need to come straight back here. And you still need to be careful with – ”

“Yes, yes, I know, keep going like I did before,” Jonathan says, with a  dismissive wave of his hand. “I understand, I do. But…”

“Sex?” she asks, one eyebrow up.

Gethin sits up.

Any awkwardness about discussing his sex life with a relative stranger he might have felt once hadn’t survived the brutal days of Jonathan’s early diagnosis. Everything they’d done, all the men they’d slept with, every shag they'd ever had, all had been minutely examined and judged in terms of danger. It had been harrowing. Compared to that, this is nothing.

“The chance of infecting Gethin is very very low,” she says. “It’s still a possibility, though. A small one, but it exists. It’s up to you to decide whether to take that risk. And you know the drill by now, anal sex is more dangerous than – ”

“Yes, yes, we know.”

She looks at them, then gives them a rare smile. “I’m going to give you some time to let this sink in. Come see me next week, yeah? We’ll do another blood check, see if what we’ve got going is sticking. And please be careful, don’t get carried away, all right? You’ve come this far.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, with a look at Gethin. “We have.”

***

They stay silent as they leave the practice and head home, arms around each other waists. It's a heavy silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Even so, Gethin can practically hear the gears turning in Jonathan's head, all the implications settling in.

“I genuinely don’t care, you know,” Gethin says, on impulse.

Jonathan looks up at him in surprise. “About?”

“Sex. With a condom or without, it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. You know that, right?”

“I know that now, yeah.” Jonathan gives him a wry smile. “I may have thought that you just said that to comfort me, at one time, but…”

 _We’re past that_.

This kind of thing is like a fire, really. It burns away everything that isn’t solid enough to survive, lays bare the solid unbreakable foundation underneath. They’d seen plenty of others who’d collapsed under it all, who'd broken up, who  _had_ to break up or they'd end up breaking each other.

But for some reason, what Gethin had with Jonathan had survived.

Gethin reaches out and takes Jonathan’s hand, weaving their fingers together.

 “So, dinner with your mum?” Jonathan asks. “Saturday, right?”

“Yep.” Gethin squeezes Jonathan’s hand. “Try to make something a little less exotic, this time.”

“She likes it.”

“She’s just polite.”

“Nonsense.” Jonathan throws him a bright smile. “You’ve got to have your adventurous streak from somewhere.”

Gethin snorts but refrains from reply.

They turn the corner to the shop. Gethin can’t help but smile at the sight of it. It’s quiet, but it’s close to closing time now. There have been days when they barely could squeeze in because of all the customers.

Joe gives them a wave when they come in. “Busy day. We’ve run out of our stock of Joys.”

“It’s fine, I’ve already ordered a new lot. They should be here the day after tomorrow.” Gethin drops his bag behind the counter and leans close, checking the books. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jonathan go to the back.

It’s strange, how much he likes all this. Not just the books, which was what he expected. But also the other things, the administration, the finances, the organisation. Even after these years he doesn’t really mind. It's just one of the things that makes him feel at home, now.

“How are you doing?” Joe asks, oddly serious.

“Fine,” Gethin says, surprised. “Why?”

“No, I meant – Er, you and Jonathan. You looked… I don’t know. Happy?”

Gethin ducked his head over the ledger. “I suppose we are, really,” he says, a little uncomfortably.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” Joe says hastily. “It’s just that you two – When I was younger, you two…”

Gethin looks up again. Joe’s cheeks are pink but his eyes are bright. “I know,” he says, gently. “And yeah, we’re still fine.”

“Good.” He gives Gethin a weak smile and slides off the counter. “So, er, I’ll be off, then.”

“Yeah. Thanks for helping out.” Gethin returns to his ledger and Joe gets his things, goes to the door. “See you on Sunday, then?” he adds, as Joe makes to leave.

“Oh, er, yeah, sure. Is Steph – ”

“Yep.” Gethin glances up. “And the girlfriend.”

Joe grins, broad and happy. “Good. See you then.”

“See you,” Gethin calls out absently, and then the doorbell jingles Joe’s goodbye.

He marks another few potential purchases, then closes up the till and locks the door, flips the sign. He takes a moment to breathe in the shop, now everything’s done for the day.

Then he goes up.

***

Jonathan is already cooking when he comes in the living room, the smell of spices filling the air. Gethin goes over to the window, leans his shoulder against the wall, looking out. Only two weeks until Pride, and someone on the other side of the street has hung out a rainbow flag. Gethin watches it wave in the wind, pensively.

After a moment, Jonathan comes up behind him. He wraps his arm loosely around Gethin’s waist.

“I never thought we’d come this far,” Gethin says, hand on Jonathan's arm.

“When?”

“Always.” He leans back against Jonathan's chest. “At first I thought we’d never be really a couple. And then I thought it would never last. Then you got sick, and…”

“And you’d thought I’d never live anything beyond a year,” Jonathan finished softly.

“Yes.”

They stay silent, for a moment or two. Gethin can feel the slow expanse and fall of Jonathan’s chest with each exhale, steady and reassuring. Jonathan's arm is a warm anchoring point at his waist, holding him centered, preventing him from floating off.

He closes his eyes. “You kept surprising me.”

“And you me,” Jonathan says, easily.

Gethin turns and wraps his arms around Jonathan’s waist, pulling him in close. He rests his forehead against Jonathan’s, one of Jonathan’s hands warm and heavy on the back of his neck. “I love you,” he says, softly.

“I love you,” Jonathan replies, and the stupid trite phrase turns into something unique and precious in his voice.

He presses his cheek against Jonathan’s, holds him even tighter.

He never believed he would ever have something like this. Not really. But now... It feels  _real_. Realer than anything else he's ever felt. Something to be proud of, something that gives him hope, and strength. Belief. 

They'd survived. They'd come this far. And they'd keep going.

Together.

 

 

 

.


End file.
